In the Dead of Winter, When Chicago’s Wind Cut Like Glass and the Snow Felt Personal, I Opened the Door to a Storm That Wasn’t Just Outside the House, but Inside My Marriage, and by the Time the Streetlamp Across the Street Stopped Buzzing, Nothing Between Us Was Going to Survive the Night

The dead of winter in Chicago doesn’t welcome you. It assaults you. Wind shoved itself into the foyer the moment I cracked the door, carrying needles of snow that stung my cheeks and slipped down the collar of my sweater like icy fingers searching for something to break. The old hinges groaned in protest, and somewhere across the street a …